


Sick for Home Amid the Alien Corn

by SaintSebStan



Category: Captain America (Movies), Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Angst, Catholic Steve Rogers, Gen, Roman Catholicism, Theology
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-24
Updated: 2015-04-24
Packaged: 2018-03-25 14:05:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3813337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaintSebStan/pseuds/SaintSebStan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"'I didn't martyr myself,' Steve protested. 'I'm not a martyr.'"</p>
<p>Steve meets Matt in church and the two have a nice chat about Catholic stuff.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sick for Home Amid the Alien Corn

**Author's Note:**

> I headcanon Steve as Catholic REALLY HARD. (And it's basically canon, anyway. His parents were Irish immigrants, so they were almost definitely Catholic, so Steve was raised Catholic, and I like to think he would have kept his faith and it would be an important part of his life.) So of course I had to have Steve meet his fellow Catholic superhero, even if he doesn't know that Matt is a superhero at this point. 
> 
> This is set after The Avengers, but before The Winter Soldier. Title is from John Keats's "Ode to a Nightingale," specifically the lines about the Biblical figure Ruth. There is some angsty background Steve/Bucky (I ship it; it had to slip in).

            Steve had been driving aimlessly around the city when he happened upon the church in Hell's Kitchen. For the past several months he'd been travelling across the States, just him and his motorcycle, seeing the sights, trying to think, trying not to think (the Grand Canyon inspired the latter response; Bucky had always wanted to see the Grand Canyon). He'd been "home" in Brooklyn, in an apartment SHIELD had set up for him, for a few weeks now and he was already feeling restless again.

            It didn't help that the apartment was too big. Too empty. It was just him there. Steve had never lived on his own before. First he'd lived with his mother, then with Bucky, then he was in the army and there was never any privacy there. Everything was shared, everything was multi-purpose. When he'd lived with Bucky, they would put a plank of wood over the bathtub and that was the kitchen table. Steve's new apartment just felt alien. It had a dishwasher.

            But this church in Hell's Kitchen, this didn't feel alien. It was old and reminded him of the church he went to as a kid, the one that had been built in the 1860s and then torn down in the 1960s, when he was still in the ice.

            Steve hadn't been in a church in a while; it had been even longer since he'd attended Mass. When he was travelling the country he would stop here and there to poke around a church, to admire the architecture, to sketch what he saw. He'd been a tourist.

            The last church he'd stepped foot in had been a Baptist clapboard chapel, somewhere in Louisiana, with the paint peeling from all the humidity. It was badly in need of restoration, but it had a certain calming charm, and that calming charm was reflected in the warm face of the pastor who had come out to greet him. They'd talked for a long while about the history of the chapel, when it was built, the sorts of people who had attended over the years. The pastor had invited Steve to come back for the service the next morning; the congregation was small, but enthusiastic. Steve had explained that he was actually Catholic. The pastor had said that didn't matter, that God was God and Steve should come anyway.

            Steve figured the pastor was probably right, but there was still something particularly attractive about a Catholic church, its art, its aura. He'd slowed his motorcycle when he saw the spires of the church in Hell's Kitchen; out front he'd stopped and stared at the wide wooden doors. One door was cracked open, and inside it looked empty and dark, the only illumination provided by the early evening light coming through the stained glass windows. And there was undoubtedly a cluster of votive candles flickering away in there.

            He'd go in. Just for a moment.

            It felt somewhat wrong to survey a sanctuary with such suspicion, but Steve still scoped out the place, listening carefully, sweeping his gaze across the pews, checking the dark corners. Old habits. The church, thankfully, was empty but for a lone man sitting almost dead centre. He wore round, tinted glasses, and there was a shadowy object leaning against the pew next to him... just a cane. The guy was blind. Not a threat, then.

            Steve softened his footsteps, not wanting to disturb the other man. He decided to sit near the back, his body reminding him to genuflect and cross himself before sitting down. Muscle memory. This felt familiar.

            The church was very beautiful. The soaring altar piece, the stations of the cross lining the walls between stained glass windows (the window depicting Michael striking down Lucifer was really something). Further up and partly hidden behind a column, Steve could see a statue of Mary.

            Steve's fingers twitched restlessly, and he smoothed out an invisible wrinkle in his trousers. He wished he had his rosary. But his rosary had been on Bucky when he... ( _don't think about that_ ). Steve, meanwhile, had had Bucky's rosary. They'd exchanged rosaries when they... ( _don't think about that_ ). Apparently Bucky's rosary was in a museum somewhere now. Apparently a lot of their things were in museums, a number of them in the Smithsonian. SHIELD had said they could get back some of Steve's personal effects (get back Bucky's rosary), but Steve, for some reason, had balked at the idea. He was struggling not to dwell too much on the past. Filling his life with things that were, quite literally, museum pieces did not seem a good way to avoid dwelling.

            Yet here he was in a church that reminded him of his childhood church, and if that wasn't dwelling, well--

            Steve's thoughts were interrupted by a considerably loud, considerably crass noise. It was tinny-sounding rock music coming from his phone and being embarrassingly amplified by the stone walls of the church. He hadn't chosen the music; it had been Stark. It was Stark's ringtone. Stark was calling him again. Stark had been calling him a lot lately, yammering on about his ugly tower in Manhattan, saying something about wanting the 'Avengers' to move in. Wanting Steve to move in. Sure, Steve was pining for communal living, but he didn't think he was desperate enough yet to move in with Tony Stark.

            After what seemed like a horribly long time spent fumbling, he managed to decline the call and hurriedly set his phone to silent (Tony was sure to call again). "I'm really sorry about that," he announced to the other man in the church, who had turned slightly in the pew, cocking his head towards the source of the annoying sound. "Sorry."

            "It's okay," said the man mildly. "Great acoustics in here."

            Steve laughed uncomfortably. "Yeah, just don't think they were made for AC/DC."

            The man made a thoughtful sound. "Didn't really take Captain America for the sort who'd listen to AC/DC."

            "I -- I don't. It's just this guy. He's..." Steve spluttered. "Sorry, do I know you?"

            "No," said the man. "I recognized your voice from the TV."

            Right. Steve never could get used to being a public figure. SHIELD's PR people had made him do a couple interviews; and being around Tony Stark (which he tried to avoid) meant that there was almost always a camera in his face. Most of the time he could avoid scrutiny when he was dressed in civilian clothes, like now, rather than bright spandex, but of course that wouldn't make any different to a guy who couldn't _see_ him anyway.

            "You don't come here often" the man continued. "Or at all, I should say. I think someone would have told me if Captain America was in the congregation."

            "No, I haven't been here before, I was just..." Steve stood up and made his way down the aisle towards the other man. It felt weird, to talk across such a vast space, their voices echoing. Besides, the man was continuing to speak; this was obviously an invitation to further conversation. Any sort of meditative silence had been ruined by Steve's stupid phone. "I was just out cruising and I saw this place."

            "Out cruising," the man repeated innocently, but Steve didn't miss the hint of a smile playing at his lips.    

            "Very funny," Steve said drily as he sat down again. "We had that slang term in my day, you know." Often when people recognized him on the street they were overly deferential, polite... this guy was emphatically not. It was nice. "I was on my motorcycle."

            "Well, that's an even better way to impress a potential partner," the man quipped. He held out his hand. "Matt Murdock."

            "Steve Rogers," Steve said. Introducing himself was rather redundant at this point, but hopefully it would prompt the other man to stop referring to him as 'Captain America.' He shook Matt's hand. Up close he could see that Matt had a cut on his lip that was still healing. And it didn't look like the kind of cut you got by accident; it looked like the kind of cut you got from being punched in the face. Steve would know. He'd been punched in the face enough times. He wondered if those dark glasses were hiding any bruises. Should he say something? Who went around beating up blind guys, anyway? He felt indignant.

            "Nice to meet you, Steve," Matt said, and Steve was thankful that Matt couldn't see the way that he had been staring at his banged up face. Though maybe he had sensed it. "So, you were just drawn here while out 'cruising'."

            "I guess. I liked the architecture. Sometimes I like to sketch interesting buildings..." He was avoiding getting personal, avoiding mentioning how this place reminded him of his church back home (home was just over in Brooklyn, but also decades upon decades away), the smell of the incense, how he and his mother always sat in the front pew, and he kept sitting there when she was gone, and Bucky's family sat in the pew behind him, and Bucky would lean forward and ruffle the pages of his hymnal by Steve's ear, the one where his hearing was still halfway decent, and it would always, _always_ startle Steve, and Bucky's mother would scold her son... "Is this a good church?" Steve blurted out. He resisted the urge to squirm in the pew. "I mean, how's the service? You like the priest? I haven't really had time, since everything, to... well, there was this church I went to a few times, but it didn't exactly _survive_..."

            "Aliens wrecked it," Matt guessed.

            "Yeah. But even before, it didn't feel quite right. Masses in English and all that." Steve shrugged. "I'll get used to it, I guess."

            "You missed Vatican II," Matt said simply.

            "I missed a lot."

            They lapsed into a brief silence. Steve's eyes were wandering over the seventh station of the cross (Christ falls for the second time) when Matt spoke again. "Father Lantom is good. If you want a priest who manages to pry without seeming to pry, and strong-arms you into the confessional before you even know what's happening."

            "Is that what you want?" Steve asked. He realized, as the words left his mouth, how personal and intrusive the question could be construed, but Matt just shrugged.

            "Sometimes. But that could just be the masochism."

            Steve laughed. "My friend, back before... he was in the Church too, but he didn't get that self-flagellation stuff. But he accused me of being nuts for it. I don't know."

            "Bucky Barnes?" Matt asked.

            "Uh, yeah," said Steve. He didn't know what else to say after that. He probably shouldn't have brought up Bucky. _Don't think about that_.

            "Sorry," Matt said, seeming to sense the direction of Steve's thoughts. "Must be weird, having complete strangers know so much about your life. All those history books. I've read a few of them. I feel like I should admit that."

            "I've read some of them. I mean, not really read, I couldn't really... it was too weird... but I skimmed them, you know. There was one that... no," he laughed, "never mind."

            "Tell me."

            "There was one, this lady, she compared me to Saint Stephen." Steve felt himself flushing.

            "Lisa Dowell? I think that's who you're talking about. Yeah, she really played up your Catholic upbringing. I mean, I get it. First martyr, first superhero, first superhero to martyr himself..."

            "I didn't martyr myself," Steve protested. "I'm not a martyr."

            "Are you embarrassed because of actual humility or because you sort of like the comparison and think you shouldn't?"

            "I'm not embarrassed!"

            "You sound embarrassed."

            Steve was silent for a moment. "I didn't like it," he admitted, and this felt like something he ought to be saying over there, in the confessional, not to some guy he had just met. "I didn't like it because I never thought much of the martyrs. They just seemed so passive, letting all that evil happen to them. And I know He was supposed to, but Christ just went to His death and... oh boy, I couldn't do that. I'd be punching those Romans left and right. Even as an asthmatic kid. I could never understand what He did. Maybe I'm just not very good at being Catholic."

            "The amount of guilt in your voice right now would suggest otherwise."

            Steve laughed. "I'm in church! Suggesting that I know better than God! How else am I supposed to feel? I can't even look at Him right now. In the second station, He's staring right at you, hoisting that cross onto His shoulder."

            "I remember, from when I was a kid. From before all this," Matt waved his hand in front of his tinted glasses. "I remember what all the stations look like here."

            Steve hummed. He was unsure how to respond to that. Matt saved him the trouble by redirecting their conversation.

            "So you're not a martyr. You're a fighter." Matt paused, and for the first time in the conversation he seemed uncertain. "Do you ever worry about  fighting the wrong thing? Like Jacob, boxing -- wrestling with the angel, and not even realizing he was staring God in the face."

            "No. I mean, well, yes. Back in the war everything seemed so black and white. Not so much anymore. The world is different. Or maybe I'm just older and less... naive."

            Matt seemed amused. "That was like a year ago, for you."

            "I'm a year older. I'm also seventy years older. It's complicated." Steve paused. "I never much liked Jacob either. Tricking his brother out of his birthright with some stew? What a jerk."

            Matt laughed, surprised. "Esau was stupid enough to take the trade."

            "That's what I'm saying. It was cruel. Obviously he was taking advantage of Esau. A good man wouldn't do that."

            "But would a man like Esau have made a very good leader?"

            Steve shook his head. "I don't know."

            Matt's laughter quieted to a chuckle. "Is there any Biblical figure you _do_ like?"

            "Ruth," said Steve simply and without hesitation. "I've always liked Ruth. Maybe even more now with... well. Everything that's happened. What about you? Who do you like?"

            "The Archangel Michael," replied Matt, and a nearly unsettling smirk flashed across his face. "There is supposed to be a good depiction of him, right over there..." he gestured to the stained glass window Steve had noticed upon first entering the church. "They replaced that window a few years back. Vandals." So Matt had never seen it.

            "It's pretty striking," Steve said, struggling to come up with a better word. His eyes were drawn down the length of Michael's spear, down to the face of Lucifer. "Lucifer looks very... human."

            "How so?" Matt asked.

            "Uh, I guess because he looks sad. Not angry, or feral, like I've seen him before in this scene. Just sad."

            "Like he regrets what he's done?"

            "Maybe. Do you think Lucifer felt regret? That he wasn't just, I don't know, pure evil? Nothing but an antagonist?"

            Matt started to laugh again. "I really don't know. That's the sort of thing I'd ask Father Lantom."

            "And what would Father Lantom say?"

            "No idea. I haven't spoken to him about the Devil." That smile was back. "And speak of the Devil." He tilted his head towards the sound of footsteps coming from the vestry. Even with Steve's serum-improved hearing, he could barely make out the sound, and certainly wouldn't have noticed the footsteps under the gentle hum of conversation. Matt's alertness was impressive.

            "Father Lantom? Here to strong-arm you into the confessional?"

            "Probably."

            Steve hesitated. He considered meeting Father Lantom, talking to him... but he didn't want to impose on Matt's time with the priest. This was clearly something they did often, meeting and chatting outside of regular church hours. Besides, Steve didn't feel quite ready to be strong-armed into a confessional. Not yet.

            He pulled out his phone and saw that he had three missed calls from Stark. As good an excuse as any to make his exit. "Well, I better go. I have to call my... friend back. He'll just keep calling until I pick up."

            Matt held out his hand once more. "It was good talking with you, Steve."

            "Same to you, Matt."

            Matt kept his grip on Steve's hand a little longer than necessary. "Come back, if you want. Come back for Mass. I'm almost always here Sunday at noon."

            "Not one for the early Mass?"

            "No, I'm not a morning person, I'm afraid. I have too many late nights."

            As Steve was leaving the church he felt himself veer (muscle memory) towards the font by the door. The holy water felt pleasantly cool against his fingertips, and he crossed himself with fluid, easy grace.

            _In the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Ghost. Amen._


End file.
